Chapter 8 - The Velvet Box
At 1:30 that afternoon, the dining room of the historic Amarillo Club on the thirtieth floor of the Chase Tower was quiet. Posie sat in a high-backed burgundy velvet chair, her tiny legs swinging above the carpet, staring in absolute wonder at a massive silver platter holding a three-tiered chocolate fudge sundae topped with cherries and real spun sugar.
"Is this for real, Mommy?" Posie whispered, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly under her arm. "Did I do good on my sight words?"
"You did amazing, baby," Jolie said softly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as she watched her daughter take her first delicate spoonful of warm fudge.
Cullen sat across from them, watching the little girl with an expression so tender it transformed his usually stern, hardened face. He had ordered the finest dishes on the menu, but more importantly, he had listened to Posie talk about her kindergarten teacher, her favorite colors, and how she helped her mommy check the rubber squeegee blades for nicks.
"Mr. Cullen?" Posie asked, her chin smeared with chocolate.
"Yes, Posie?"
"Are the windows all clean now?"
Cullen smiled, reaching across the white linen tablecloth and gently tapping the tip of her nose. "They are cleaner than they've been in eighty-eight years, sweetheart. Thanks to you finding that spot."
He reached beneath his chair and brought out a large, circular hatbox wrapped in deep emerald velvet and tied with a gold satin ribbon. He placed it gently in front of Posie.
"What's this?" Posie gasped, her eyes widening like saucers.
"Open it," Cullen encouraged.
Posie carefully untied the ribbon, lifting the heavy velvet lid. Inside lay a miniature, custom-made Western hat, crafted from pale silver-belly beaver felt, lined with soft pink silk, and stamped with gold lettering along the inner leather band: Posie Cantrell—Honorary Master Artisan, Strickland Hat Co.
Posie gasped, lifting the tiny hat with trembling hands. "Mommy, look! It’s like the ones in the big glass windows!"
Jolie looked at Cullen, her heart swelling with an emotion so intense it took her breath away. "Cullen... this is too much. Custom beaver felt costs thousands of dollars..."
"My grandfather made the first miniature showcase hat in 1940 for the governor's daughter," Cullen said, his eyes holding Jolie’s gaze with unwavering warmth. "He wrote in his journal that our hats belong to people with true grit. I don't know anyone with more grit than the two of you."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second, smaller document, sliding it across the table toward Jolie.
"What is this?" she asked.
"The board approved your five-year contract this morning," Cullen said softly. "And I added a rider. Strickland Hat Company is establishing an educational trust for children of our independent commercial contractors. Posie’s college tuition is officially paid in full."
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Jolie’s hands flew to her mouth as tears spilled over her lashes. "Cullen... no... I can't accept that. I work for my money. I don't take handouts."
"It isn't a handout, Jolie," Cullen murmured, leaning closer, his hand gently covering hers on the table. "It's an investment. In someone who taught me that truth doesn't hide behind excuses. And in a woman I haven't been able to stop thinking about since she threw an invoice through my mail slot."
